

A Soldier’s Farewell to His 

Old Flag. 



Indiana ^oddiews’ and Sailods’ Mon-ument. 




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A Soldier’s Farewell to His 

Old Flag. 



BRAZIL, INDIANA. 
The Register. Publisher. 

1889. 
















pi 


DEDICATION. 

To The Unpensioned Union Soldiers, 

As well as to their Comrades generally, in the 
hope that the Republic will soon recognize their 
services with becoming gratitude. 


Copyright 1839 by A. F. Bridges. 










AN UNKNOWN HERO. 



HE day was a perfect day in June. 
Nature was exuberant of life in 
!f\ green fields, gay with myriad flowers, 
)j swift streams, the melody of birds, 
while over all bent an unclouded sky— 
a sky of promise and of prophecy 
Everywhere there was life — nowhere was 
there a hint or suggestion of death. Seated 
in the front room of a suit then occupied by 
the State Library, at the corner of Tennessee 
and Market streets, in Indianapolis, I was 
reading from The North American Review for 
September, 1817, the original “Thanatopsis,’’ 
The venerable janitor was bnsy in the opposite 
end of the room. The doors were open look- 









6 AN UNKNOWN HERO. 


ing out on the State House grounds, then over¬ 
grown with abundant shrubbery, whence came 
cool airs stirred with melody, and fragrant. 
Suddenly two figures stood in the doorway. 
They wore the blue uniform of privates of the 
late war. One, emaciated, with a hectic flush 
on his cheeks, leaned heavily on his comrade’s 
arm. They proceeded slowly to the room 
where were stored mementoes and trophies of 
the war, including numerous battle-flags. The 
janitor followed, being beconed. Laying aside 
the poem, I also followed. The invalid soldier 
was dying of a consumption, doubtless the re¬ 
sult of exposure in army life, though fifteen 
years had passed since the war closed, a d he 
had come evidently from a distance to see his 
old flag for the last time before he died. The 
janitor very tenderly untied and shook out the 
tattered and torn folds of the flag from the splin¬ 
tered staff —it had led one of Indiana’s many 
brave regiments through focal tires at the 
front, what one I did not note, nor does it 
matter. Removing his cap, the soldier bowed 
his head reverently in the presence of his old 
flag, nor could he suppress the tears and the 

















AN UNKNOWN HERO. 7 


emotion called up by the recollections of the 
past, and the sadness of the parting. The af¬ 
fecting scene lasted for some minutes, though 
scarcely a word was uttered, when the two 
soldiers quietly left. 

I could not forget the scene — the devotion 
to the old flag — the self-sacrificing love of 
country — the brave soldier dying in defense 
of human liberty, though years after the vic¬ 
tory had been won, just as truly as if he had 
been shot down on the field of battle. I only 
wish that this tardy attempt to preserve in 
verse the incident and its lessons was more 
worthy. 

I regret that I can not embellish the verse 
with the hero’s name. In some lowly, perhaps 
unmarked grave, he is sleeping to-day with the 
great army of the Unknown dead. 

He was a typical Union soldier, with a record 
somewhat broadened to admit of detail, and 
yet perhaps not an impossible record. There 
are thousands like him yet living, or rather 
dying—dying from battle wounds, disease con¬ 
tracted during army life, exposures, hardships. 
They falter in mid-life, or in premature age, 














8 AN UNKNOWN HEEO. 


while others for whose sake they are now 
worn-out and broken-down, out-distance them 
in the race of life. They should be pensioned, 
every one of them, not as charity, but in pay¬ 
ment of a debt that the Government owes to 
them as its saviours. Then, a§ one by one, 
they join the rapidly-swelling ranks of com¬ 
rades and old commanders in an eternal biv¬ 
ouac, let their memories be kept evergreen, 
and let monuments worthy of those who build 
—for what monument can be worthy of those 
who die for the freedom of the human race? 
be erected in their honor as a reward to loy¬ 
alty, and to show that Republics .are not al¬ 
ways ungrateful. 












A SOLDIER’S FAREWELL TO HIS OLD 

FLAG. 


Blanched was his cheek but not with fear, that 
pleasant morn in June. 

Death’s hand was on his manly brow—dire fate 
that came too soon 

To one who, when the war clouds lowered, 
amid the shot and shell, 

Quick answered to his country's call and did 
his duty well. 

He followed far the flag he loved. Its folds lo 
him divine 

Gleamed ever on the battle’s front of victory, 
the sign. 

He saw it fall with Sumter, when the South 
her challenge flung, 

And all the startled Northland sons to arms 
indignant sprung. 









10 A soldier’s farewell to his old flag. 


From Bull Run’s rout to Malvern Hill he 
followed where it led, 

When Little Mac, all gallantly, rode at the 
army’s head. 

From splintered masts with Farragut he saw 
its bright folds fly 

Till o’er the South’s fair Queen they streamed 
beneath a peaceful sky — 

The Mississippi ©wned no more the traitor’s 
armed fleet, 

But underneath its folds benign the rippling 
wavelets beat. 

He saw it wave from Round Top, amid the 
flame and smoke, 

Where Lee’s invaders courted death beneath 
Meade’s lightning stroke, 

On bloody field of Gettysburg, now Freedom’s 
rallying place, 

Where North and South as brothers meet and 
hatred’s scars efface. 

Up through the clouds he followed it on Look 
Out, bathed in blood, 

Where gallant Hooker won the day and on the 
summit stood. 










A soldier’s farewell to his old flag. 11 


Or with bold Sherman to the sea, a bummer 
true and brave, 

Through grim war’s very fastnesses his coun¬ 
try’s flag to save. 

With Logan, lion-hearted, into the thickest 
fray, 

Or in the charge with Little Phil, the charge 
that saved the day. 

With Grant at Shiloh, or within the Wilder¬ 
ness most dire — 

Storming beleagured Richmond through length¬ 
ened siege of fire — 

Till Grant returned to Lee his sword and bade 
the South go free, 

A knight of royal knighthood and Christian 
chivalry. 

Ah, those were days heroic, the souls of men 
that tried — 

Days iconoclastic unto grim idols big with 
pride; 

They lifted the old world sunward, they brake 
the gyves of man, 

They won for Freedom once again the fight. 
Republican. 










12 A soldier’s farewell to his old flag. 


All honor to the brave who fell. Unto remot¬ 
est time 

Green be the memory of their deeds, heroic 
and sublime! 

But not alone fall martyr hosts on fields of 
bloody wars — 

Death reaps a bounteous harvest yet from 
those who won but scars. 

The prison pen, the long forced march, expos¬ 
ures manifold, 

Bent strong forms long before their time and 
made the young men old, 

Brought lingering death to thousands, who, as 
past the swift years by, 

Still follow their old commanders — to the biv¬ 
ouac on high. 

Following his old commander from ranKs thinned 
with each day 

Of scarred and war-worn veterans still tramp¬ 
ing life’s highway, 

He came that pleasant morn in June to bid 
his flag good-bye 

Before he joined his comrades slain the day 
whose dawn was nigh. 









A soldier’s farewell to his old flag. 13 


War’s trophies and mementoes ranged, historic 
sight to see 

That brought the dead past back again, looked 
down all orderly 

Upon a soldier leaning on a comrade’s proff¬ 
ered arm. 

His sunk cheek touched with tell-tale flush 
shrivelled and shrunk his form. 

He faltering told his story. A few words ut¬ 
tered all. 

Kindly the gray-haired sexton, from its place 
upon the wall, 

Lifted the colors, rent and torn, of the sol¬ 
dier’s regiment, 

Unfurled it to the eager gaze upon it sadly 
bent. 

Head uncovered, bent in reverence; eyes dimmed 
with burning tears; 

Form shaken with emotion strong with strength 
of patient years, 

He cast his last sad lock upon the flag he fol¬ 
lowed far, 

His day-dawn all resplendent throughout the 
night of w r ar. 















14 A soldier’s farewell to his old flag. 


All hearts owned the holiness that awed that 
silent hour, 

That touched all hearts to tenderness with its 
subduing power, 

For a gallant soldier bade farewell to a flag he 
died to save, 

That its bright folds might float above the 
home of free and brave. 

He came so like a visitant, that pleasant morn 
in June, 

From out the Past’s dim portals, with memor¬ 
ies all atune, 

No word profaned the silence that asked from 
whence he came, 

And silence guards the secret well that hides 
his honored name. 

Unknown he sleeps, with countless hosts a 
martyr brother true, 

Whose warm heart’s blood in sacrifice encrim¬ 
soned coats of blue. 

Green be the turf above them all, these hosts 
of Freedom’s braves, 

And, reared to heaven, rise the shaft above 
their lowly graves. 











A soldier’s farewell to his old flao. 15 


Aye, reared to heaven let it rise to tell remot¬ 
est time 

Of willing lives in sacrifice to principle sub¬ 
lime — 

Of lives that piled the altar fanes for Free¬ 
dom’s glorious sake, 

And man’s, and God’s, that earth at last ,all 
' disenthralled, might wake—• 

I 

Might wake to greet the dawning day of Lib¬ 
erty serene, 

From out the night of ages, bright with un¬ 
borrowed sheen, 

The flower of all the centuries, the foremost 
in the van, 

Its creed, the Fatherhood of Gcd, the Brother¬ 
hood of Man. 


THE END. 











Indiana Soldiers 1 and Sailors 1 Monument. 


Total hight, including statue, 238 feet; diameter at 
base of terrace 68; estimated cost not to exceed $200,000; 
architect, Bruno Schmitz, of Berlin, Prussia. 














LIBRARY OF 



JOHN B. CRAFT, Jr. 

John B. Craft, Jr., A True Story 
of A Remarkable Reformation. 
Small Quarto, 32 pages,_ frontis¬ 
piece portrait. Paper 25 cents. 

Twenty per cent, discount to 
temperance orders, Churches and 
Sunday schools, on orders of six 
or more copies. 

A sketch from life, highly recom¬ 
mended by pulpit and press. 

The little book is full of wholesome 
moral teaching. I like it especially for 
the sweet hope held unto all men by 
Mr. Craft’s example, He is a free man 
today to show the strength of the hu¬ 
man will aided the grace of God, to re¬ 
deem from the power of the drunkard’s 
appetite. One faithful transcript from 
life, such as this, is worth all the fiction 
extant. May God’s richest blessings at¬ 
tend its reading and circulation— Fran¬ 
cis Murphy. 


THE REGISTER, Publisher, 
BRAZIL, INDIANA. 








































